


Resolutions

by fallingrenegade



Series: Traditions [2]
Category: Gravity Falls
Genre: Incest, M/M, Twincest
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-12-31
Updated: 2015-12-31
Packaged: 2018-05-10 13:32:08
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,909
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5587825
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/fallingrenegade/pseuds/fallingrenegade
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The twins spend their first New Year's together since being reunited, but it doesn't go as planned.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Resolutions

**Author's Note:**

> I suggest reading “Traditions” before this one only because quite a bit of stuff I established in there is in here. It’s not really necessary, since you can probably figure it all out from context, and the tone is quite different, but I’ll suggest it anyway.

"What's your New Year’s resolution?" Ford asks casually, losing precious brain cells from doing absolutely nothing of worth.

The new couple sits on their couch, watching television though they’re both bored out of their skulls. They cuddle close, the only worthwhile action either is doing, though both refuse to call it such a word. Stan’s arm is thrown lazily around Ford’s shoulders, sides pressed close together as his warmth seeps into Stan’s aching leg. The solid weight and comradery is much appreciated. Now that their true feelings were confessed they were stuck in the dreaded "Now what?" stage that every couple hits eventually. Since they had known each other longer than they had breathed, that stage hit quickly, and they hadn’t even consummated their relationship yet.

"Ta get laid," answers Stan.  

Ford elbows him, scowling.

"I'm serious, Stanley."

"So am I," he admits, only half kidding. Apparently believing him, Ford looks away, folding inward a bit. Nervous arms cross in front of the genius.  

"I- I don't think I'm ready for that yet."

"Then you need more wine," Stan suggests, leaning over and generously filling the half-full glass almost to the top. Ford frowns, eyeing the dangerous liquid as though it might swallow him whole.

"Stop trying to get me drunk," Ford chides.

"Then stop bein' such a prude."

Stan watches as Ford finally turns toward him, downright scowling. Though he shouldn’t, Stan finds the expression humorous. It takes great effort for the pestering man not to laugh.

"It's only been a week since Christmas, Stanley. All we've done is kiss."

"You said after New Year’s and it'll be the new year in a couple hours."

"I said 'maybe'," Ford stresses, face set.

"Cock tease," Stan accuses casually, sipping his own wine, loving how much he's annoying his slightly-older brother. It was better entertainment than whatever worthless nonsense was on TV.

"Asshole," Ford says automatically, leg crossing over the other, purposely pulling away from Stan in annoyance, bodies no longer flush.

Missing the contact, Stan jabs Ford’s arm with his fist. The touch makes Ford sway but he leans back like Stan hadn’t done a thing to throw off his center of gravity.

"I’m just teasin’ ya, Sixer. I know you're nervous, but it's not a big deal. If it happens, it happens.” Stan shrugs nonchalantly, meaning his words. “I'm not gonna force ya into anything."

Ford seems to relax at that, which Stan is grateful for. Teasing was one thing, but he couldn’t have Ford believing he would actually guilt him into sex. What kind of man did Ford think he was?  

Careful not to spill red all over the white area rug, Ford picks up his own generously-filled wineglass. Stan watches the liquid shake in Ford’s unsteady hand. Winter internalizes in Stan’s lungs. His intention had been to frustrate Ford, not freak him out. Stan internally sighs, regretting his decisions. _Shit_.

"Good," is all Ford says after a while, voice low before taking a small sip of the cheap stuff. He makes a face at the dry taste but holds the stem, nursing it regardless.

Despite what Ford thought, Stan doesn't actually want him drunk, just a little loosened up. Ford had seemed tense all day and if Stan couldn't help relieve his tension in better, more interesting ways then he could at least provide the alcohol.

Seeing how square Ford’s shoulders were, Stan allows his hand to massage the one his hand was already clasping, finding hard, tense muscles below the thick sweater. The movement spooks the genius, blue eyes boring into Stan’s.

“Now what are you doing?” demands Ford.  

“Relax. Yeesh. Now you’re puttin’ _me_ on edge. I’m tryin’ to help. Just enjoy it.”

Ford seems like he’ll do anything but, yet he turns back toward the idiot box, allowing Stan the small, innocent touch. His hand curls and kneads the tense muscles, pleased to feel them loosening under his pliable fingers. Stan smiles while he watches Ford’s expression change, first stiff contempt to mild annoyance then finally peaceful calm.

After a few minutes of massaging his shoulder while the recipient stares at the television screen, Stan’s hand releasing tight tension and calming him some, Ford finally seemed content. Seeing that his actions had helped, Stan releases his hand and grabs the remote instead, television flicking off. The tension is right back tenfold.

"Why'd you turn it off?" Ford asks, just as rigid as before.

Sighing, Stan feels like he’s on the wrong side of a war.  

"Nothing's on. Let's turn on some music. I'm gettin' bored and my boyfriend won't let me get off with him."

Ford's eyebrow shoots up, surprised at the word yet doesn't say anything about it. Stan notices but says nothing. They hadn’t talked about what they were calling their relationship yet, but referring to him simply as his brother seemed lacking now.  

Stretching, Stan stands, groaning at the aches and pops. Once his body agrees with him, Stan walks to his stereo across the room. There's nothing good on that either, so he wobbles to his old record player, leg bothering him without the warmth.

After a minute, Ford joins cautiously by his side, hands clasped behind his back. Stan flips through their old records, finding a few good ones and setting them aside. Ford puts a couple back that he doesn't like. The action pisses Stan off yet he allows it.

When Stan finds an old favorite he makes a pleased hum. Carefully, Stan slips a vinyl from its old paper case, edges tattered from being well-used, and puts it on, setting the needle and hearing that old static sound that takes him back. It's so like being home with Ford again, back in New Jersey casually listening to music and doing not much else. Nostalgia gives Stan courage to turn toward Ford, “Rhythm of the Rain” by The Cascades falling around their ears as he does.

The song always made Stan sad, but he at least knows why. It reminds him of a time he doesn’t want to recall, and someone he could never forget. That person currently stands there in the light blue sweater he'd made for him, finally back in his life after all those long, lonely years. Ford seemed to wear the Christmas gift a lot lately. Actually, Stan can’t recall seeing him without it since he had unwrapped the box. Stan makes a face, suddenly hoping he actually washes the damn thing. Now cautious, Stan looks him up and down. Ford’s arms are still behind his back, looking unsure of himself. Seeing that Ford looked no more confident than he felt, Stan extends a self-conscious hand.

"Ya wanna dance?"

Ford's eyes dart else ware.

"I don't believe I'm drunk enough yet, Stanley."

Rolling his eyes, Stan huffs.

"Unless ya have another idea, we got nothin' better to do. It's barely ten. We have two hours ta kill ‘til the ball drops."

Ford licks his lips, eyes coming to Stan's. He's still cautiously tense but he takes his hand regardless. It’s warm and sweaty, familiar in Stan’s own.

"Oh, what the hell,” Ford blurts. “It can't hurt."

Stan pulls Ford into him, a rigid yet warm embrace. His face settles against Ford’s neck, breathing in his scent. Feeling rather gutsy, Stan takes a stronger whiff, this time of the sweater. It smells of laundry detergent, thank god.

"Actually, it could hurt,” Stan remarks after a beat. “If I remember prom night correctly ya couldn't keep your feet to yourself."

Honestly, he can't and won’t forget that night: classmates staring daggers at the oddly-close brothers going to prom in complimentary tuxes and dancing together, bodies covered in punch and laughing like lunatics as Ford steps on his twin's toes. Thinking back, Stan’s not surprised that they ended up where they are right now.

"Hey, I'm a good dancer," retorts Ford, forever oblivious.

Stan snorts, face settling more comfortably against Ford's neck.

“Yeah, right.”

There’s a huff in his ear, but Ford’s tension starts melting away like snow in spring. Stan sighs against his neck, Ford shivering at the sensation. Pleased by the reaction, Stan pulls their bodies somehow closer. His twin felt wonderful in his arms, smaller frame fitting into his perfectly. Stan actually felt happy for a moment.

That is until the sad lyrics started playing, reminding Stan of old times and all he had done wrong. Yet here they were, forty years late but better than never. Stan sighs. Guilt slithers inside his lungs, creeping up his trachea. If only he had fixed his mistake when they were young, maybe they would have had years of this closeness, not starting out once they're nearing sixty.

Ford's embracing palms across his back keep him steady; reminding Stan that he's no longer alone. It's been a long time coming.

Glad that he's finally able to, Stan lets his lips wander. They settle just before Ford’s ear, sideburns tickling his nose. Ford's steps falter, socked foot knocking into Stan's own. The reaction makes Stan smile. How could he not tease Ford when his brother rewarded him with such shocked reactions, as though he wasn't expecting Stan to make a move on him constantly? It wasn't just to annoy him, of course, or get his motor running like Ford assumed; Stan just wasn't sure how to show actual emotions without a guarded veil. He hoped that he could be strong again, show Ford that he cared without acting like a horny, annoying teenager, but his confidence had crashed after Christmas. After being so sweet, Ford had panicked and pulled away once things started heating up that night, not yet returning to their former intimacy. For reasons unknown to Stan, Ford was frightened of sex. That wasn't an idea that registered with the intensely sexual man. Romance was hard, sex was easy. As always, they just had to be opposites.

They continue to rock back and forth, not actually dancing as the old music takes them away. Stan hasn’t swayed like that in years. Admittedly, he missed having someone to do it with, especially someone he found attractive. It didn’t hurt that their bodies were almost flush, the two men all alone in the middle of nowhere, with the whole house to themselves. Thinking about the possibilities made Stan a little adventurous. Not knowing how else to show it, his hands start sliding from their respectable position on Ford's shoulder blades down his lower back, soft wool lightly scratching his palm. When Ford says nothing to detour him, he lets his hands slide further, settling on Ford's ass. Feeling frisky, Stan cups his cheeks, making Ford gasp in his ear. When Stan squeezes again, Ford grabs his hands, pulling the blasted things away.

"Stop that," he chides, growling in Stan's ear.

Stan didn’t regret the action whatsoever. Now that they were more comfortable with each other, Stan felt he could relentlessly tease Ford again. For all his bitching, Stan knew it calmed his frayed nerves, letting him know of Stan’s desires. They had only kissed over the past several days, showing their tenderness without words, Ford actually being quite innocent and bashful about the added aspect to their relationship sometimes. As much as Stan wanted to attempt romance and show what he felt underneath his hardened features, he wanted to keep their brotherly bickering as well. It was familiar and something Stan had always cherished. Besides, their passionate relationship was new and fragile, old feuds still hiding under the surface ready to boil over. Stan knew it couldn't be roses and sunflowers all the time.

He allowed his hand to settle on Ford’s lower back, respectable yet distracting Ford enough that he stepped painfully on Stan’s toe. The actual tease of the pair grunts from the pain, though smiles. _Worth it_.  

Their feet sway back and forth, keeping time with the music, barely moving across the floor. After Stan had been a little gutsy, Ford pulled away, apparently now uncomfortable with the closeness. Inwardly, Stan hopes he caused a certain reaction down south that Ford doesn’t want him to know about.

But maybe that wasn’t it. Perhaps the devious action hadn’t been wanted after all. For all his projected confidence, Stan is actually afraid that he made a grave mistake. What if Ford doesn't feel the same? What if he does care but just realized he could do so much better than an old, pestering mess? Ford claimed that he had feelings for him, but he had seen his brother lie since getting back from the multiverse. He had gotten quite good at it. All the insecurities come flooding back, cold winter whitecaps dragging him under. What if this was all another of Ford's experiments? Perhaps he was just lonely as well and wanted merely platonic, physical contact. That would explain why he didn't want things escalating further. Part of Stan knew he was overreacting, yet a larger, menacing, frightening beast told him he wasn’t. Ford would never feel that way about him. That was impossible. It was all a show and Stan the unknowing audience.

Old and new insecurities battle inside his fragile mind, fighting for the front lines of his consciousness. Stan can't win against any of them. He considers letting go, allowing Ford his likely wanted personal space.

That's when Ford sighs, hot breath tickling Stan’s neck, face pressing against him there. The intimacy helps ease Stan's worries instantly. Their positions are almost mirrored, Ford holding him closer, not letting go. The action squeezes all oxygen from Stan’s lungs. It's so tender, so equally fragile, that Stan feels his protectiveness slaughter the insecurities. He had to be strong for Ford.

Stan closes his eyes, soaking up the content feeling while it lasts, when suddenly Ford pulls away. Losing the solid heat seems worse than he had imagined. Stan hadn’t been ready for them to break apart yet. Hesitating before walking away, Ford kisses him quickly then strides back to the record player. Stan watches warily, happy that he only walks a few feet away, gladly not any farther.

Stan hadn’t even realized the song had finished.

Switching their earlier positions, Stan stands by Ford’s side as he flips through records himself, arms automatically folding across his expansive chest.

“What are ya lookin’ for?” Stan asks.

Ford doesn’t answer. After a while of skimming, his face lights up on a record Stan didn’t recognize at first.

“Ah! Here it is.”

Ford changes Stan’s choice of record to his own, slipping the other black disk back in place. Stan would be more annoyed of being pushed into the beta position if he wasn’t now curious.

Ford’s hand moves the needle over the record, music playing after a moment. Stan’s eyes go wide when he recognizes it, groaning as the music starts.

“Really? Not your girly songs again,” whines Stan.

Ford frowns as the song plays, extending his hand. Stan rolls his eyes but takes it, settling back into Ford. Now _he_ was the tense one. _Great_.

“Just listen to the lyrics, Stan.”

He had never liked the song, especially since Ford had the record on so often when they were younger, but he begrudgingly listened to it anyway.

“ _See the way he walks down the street. Watch the way he shuffles his feet. My, he holds his head up high when he goes walking by. He's my guy_.”

“Do you know why I always loved this song?” Ford says low, hesitation in his voice.

“I dunno. Cuz you’re gay?” teases Stan, not intending it as an insult since he was actually very grateful his brother only liked men –narrowing the competition considerably– but just to frustrate the easily-ruffled man even further. It worked a little too well.

Ford growls, body fierce around him, assuming it was a jab at his sexuality.

“Jackass. Keep listening.”

Stan rolls his eyes even though Ford can’t see him.

“ _When he holds my hand I'm so proud, cuz he's not just one of the crowd. My baby's always the one to try the things they've never done_.”

“Why do I hafta-”

Ford digs his fingers into Stan’s side, effectively shutting him up.

“ _And just because of that they say he's a rebel and he'll never never be any good. He's a rebel cuz he never never does what he should. But just because he doesn't do what everybody else does that's no reason why I can't give him all my love_.”

“Ford-”

“Shut up.”

“ _He is always good to me, always treats me tenderly cuz he's not a rebel, no, no, no. He's not a rebel, no, no, no, to me_.”

The song goes into upbeat instrumentals and Ford sighs, bracing himself.

“I like this song because it always reminded me of _you_. You were always so rebellious but you treated me better than anyone else ever did. I would have followed you anywhere back then. I… I was always smitten with you, Stanley. Even as teenagers. Though I didn't want to admit it to myself, I always knew deep down. That’s why I always listened to it, even though you teased me for it. I… I just wanted you to know that, and I felt this was a good time to tell you.”

Stan freezes, not expecting the courageous honesty. His mind runs back over the lyrics quickly, as much as he can remember, eyes wide as previously cemented thoughts of their childhood broke to pieces from honesty’s jackhammer.   

“ _If they don't like him that way they won't like me I’m sure today. I'll be standing right by his side when they say he's a rebel and he'll never never be any good. He's a rebel cuz he never never does what he should. Just because he doesn't do what everybody else does that's no reason why we can't share a love. He is always good to me, good to him I try to be cuz he's not a rebel, no, no, no. He's not a rebel, no, no, no, to me_.”

Stan pulls away, looking at Ford’s face as the women keep singing. It’s so raw from the admission, bashful and pulling into himself. Stan puts a hand to his rough face, bringing their lips together as the artists continue to harmonize in the background. He kisses him tenderly, thumbs rubbing the slight stubble, emotions bleeding into Ford from where they’re attached. Ford kisses back, hands not moving from Stan’s sides, making small, pleased noises as their lips repeatedly meet.

After a heated moment, Stan pulls away, hands still holding Ford’s stubbled face. He refuses to admit that his eyes are glossy.

“You really mean that?”

“Of course I do,” Ford breathes. “I always adored your rebellious spirit, and admit that I wish I shared some of it. I know that most people didn’t have faith in you, but I always did. You were always important to me, Stanley. Nothing ever changed that.”

Stan smiles, face and heart melting to a sappy puddle.

“Though I do have to admit that when I heard this song in later years it would make me angry.”

Stan’s smile deteriorates, puddle becoming protective ice. Ford defrosts it quickly.

“B-but it’s not like that anymore. It’s been getting stuck in my head recently… and I gotta admit it still fits you nicely.”

“Does it fit you too?” Stan says, referring to the singer’s feelings about her beloved rebel.

Ford smiles, wrinkles around his eyes.

“Of course.”

Stan beams. He could live with Ford staying by his side again. And standing together sounded better than being alone, like in the previous song he had picked out. Stan hugs Ford to him again, rocking them slowly back and forth though the song is long since over. They stay that way for a while, soaking in the confessions.

When Stan feels he’s had enough so-called dancing for one night, he pulls back slightly, hands staying on Ford’s slender hips for some sort of contact.

“Whaddaya wanna do now?” Stan asks.

Ford shrugs nonchalantly.

“Wanna play a game?”

“Ugh. Not some nerdy board game again.”

Ford frowns, unnecessarily restarting an old argument.

“Hey, my games are fun, Stanley. It’s not my fault you can’t appreciate them.”

Stan rolls his eyes.

“Let’s play a drinking game,” he suggests.

Ford looks uncomfortable, arms knotting tightly together across his chest.

“I won’t let you get me drunk and take advantage of me.”

Hurt that Ford thinks that less of him, Stan frowns deep. He didn’t just want in Ford’s pants; there was more to it than that. Even more than Stan liked to admit. How could Ford still think that? He wanted him to be very much sober and remember everything that they did in intense detail, not have some drunken fling they’d regret in the morning. He’d had enough of those in his lifetime and wasn’t about to let Ford become yet another regrettable notch in his bedpost.  

“Hey, I’ve never taken advantage of anyone before and I sure as hell wouldn’t start with _you_. I’ve been on the other end of that and it’s not fun in the morning, let me tell ya.”

Ford’s eyebrows rise at that, biting at his lip like he wants to ask but isn’t sure if he wants to know. Stan almost assures him that he doesn’t.

“Fine. I believe you,” admits Ford after a beat.

Stan nods once, crossing his arms.

“Good, cuz it’s the truth.”

They stand there for a moment, just looking at each other, awkward tension starting to bleed in as always.

“We could play truth or dare,” Ford suggests.

“What are you sixteen? Pick a real game.”

“Fine,” Ford huffs. “Charades?”

“Ugh. I hate charades.”

Ford throws up his hands, tired of making suggestions that get shot down.

“Then you pick one!”

“Let’s just play I Spy.”

Ford deadpans.

“Really, Stanley? ‘I Spy’? If I’m a teenager then you’re a toddler.”

Stan smacks his arm.

“It’s either that or ‘Would You Rather?’”

Ford looks intrigued by that suggestion.

“I’ve never heard of it. How do you play that one?”

“One person asks if you’d rather do one thing or another and ya hafta say which one you’d rather do. No chickening out. It’s simple. Mabel taught it to me.”

“That sounds fun,” Ford says, finally agreeing on something.

“Good,” Stan sighs harshly, glad they’ve finally decided.

They settle at the dining room table, facing each other while half-full wine glasses join them.

“I’ll go first,” suggests Stan. “Ready?”

“I believe so.”

“Alright. Would you rather stick your dick in a beehive or do it with a chick?”

Ford’s eyebrows shoot up as the conversation takes a sudden and unexpected turn. Seeing as it’s Stan, Ford really shouldn’t be surprised.

“Seriously? What kind of stupidass question is that?”

“Ya have to answer it, Sixer.”

“Ugh. Fine. I guess… I guess I’d have to pick having sex with the woman.”

“Really? But you don’t like women.”

“I’d rather have sex with someone I’m not attracted to than get stung by bees in such an intimate area. At least my penis would be intact.” Ford speaks sharply like Stan’s being a buffoon.

Stan waves at him to continue.

“Yeah, yeah, alright. Your turn.”

“Hm.” Ford puts a finger to his chin, one eyebrow raised as he thinks. “Would you rather be blind or deaf?”

“Blind,” Stan says automatically.

“Why?”

“I like hearin’ myself talk,” Stan kids.

Ford snorts a laugh which Stan smiles at, glad that they’re starting to have fun. The wine also helps.

“Okay, your turn.”

Stan has to think for a minute.

“Would you rather give or receive a lap dance?”

Ford frowns, a lone eyebrow rising.

“Are all your questions going to be sexual?”

“Yep.”

Ford sighs.

“Fine. Uh, I guess- Hm… I’d rather receive one, probably.”

A devious grin starts to form on Stan’s face.

“Don’t get any ideas,” Ford starts, leaning slightly over the table and pointing, glaring at him. It can’t be stopped; the idea has already formed.

“Too late.”

Ford leans back, defeated. Both are aware that Stan already has a plan brewing in that devious mind of his. Ignoring the previous question, Ford asks his own.

“Would you rather go backward or forward in time?”

A hot pain starts in Stan’s gut, radiating through his body like poisonous dye. The question wipes the smile clean off Stan’s face. He can see Ford regretting the question but Stan answers anyway, not about to lose a game.

“Backwards. And I think we both know why.”

Ford nods, obviously feeling bad that he asked. Stan reaches across the table, making Ford jump when he takes his hand. Five fingers run over Ford’s six. Ford watches Stan do so. Eventually his gaze comes up, locking disheartened eyes.

“We can’t change what happened, Ford, so there’s no use thinkin’ about it.” Stan pauses. “Would you rather have five fingers or six?”

It’s a low blow, but after years of wondering, he honestly wanted to know. Ford looks taken aback, eyes shooting back to Stan’s fingertips gently stroking his abnormal hand.

“Six,” Ford breathes.

“Really?”

“When I was a kid I hated my hands, but someone taught me that they help make me who I am. Eventually, I believed him. I don’t love my hands, but I don’t hate them anymore either.”

Stan lets out a breath. He knows who that someone is without Ford having to say.   

“Alright, since I’m curious, would you rather have love or money?” asks Ford, neither holding back now.

Stan groans, hand leaving Ford’s.

“Ugh. Seriously? I don’t wanna choose.”

“Those are the rules. You told me yourself.”

Stan huffs, arms crossing. He won’t look at Ford when under his breath he says, “Love.”

Ford looks genuinely surprised which pisses Stan off to no end.

“Really?” Ford balks.

“Yeah. Why’re you so surprised?”

“Because it _is_ surprising, Stan. You love money.”

Stan doesn’t even get into his reasons behind why he loves money and that his desire to have it came from wanting love. If Ford doesn’t know already then it wasn’t worth wasting precious breath.

“What would _you_ pick then? Love or money?”

“Love,” Ford says automatically. “Money was never a priority to me like it was for you.”

They watch each other for a while.

“So, we both pick love,” Ford brings up, trying to sound casual and failing.

“Sounds like it,” Stan says in an almost identical tone though not as obvious.

There’s an awkward silence. Wind howls outside, but nothing else can be heard. Stan couldn’t look Ford in the eye. His pulse felt too strong, settling in his limbs and pooling in his fingers. Stan can’t take it anymore. He stands up, stretching and turning away from Ford without an indication.  

“Let’s do somethin’ else. I’m tired of this game.”

The chair makes a horrible noise against the floor as Ford stands, Stan’s false teeth clenching at the horrid sound. A firm yet cautious hand touches Stan’s shoulder but he ignores it, like he somehow hadn’t felt the strong presence. Feet take him away automatically, needing to be away from Ford as quickly as possible.

He ends up in the living room, socked feet touching cold hardwood floors. With a sigh, Stan sits on the comfortable couch, checking the golden watch Ford had given him. He’s pleased to find that they’d at least killed another half an hour. The flashy diamonds still threw him off, yet looking at them gave Stan a good feeling.

That is until he thinks of Ford’s question and the disbelief of his truthful answer. Ford honestly thought Stan valued money above love. Is that why he gave him such an expensive gift, thinking that money or flashy jewelry would gain Stan’s affections more than Ford simply being himself? Stan had made Ford’s gift, not because he was cheap –though he would admit that he was a penny pincher– but to show he knew him so very well. Did Ford think he was a cheap, selfish bastard that wouldn’t spend more than a few bucks on him?

Stan growls, unclasping the watch and throwing it on the coffee table before him. Ford is suddenly present, once casually walking past the couch, now pausing at his side when the watch makes a sharp, loud clang. Ford looks at the watch then Stan questioningly, expression hurt. _Good_ , Stan thinks, crossing his arms. _Bastard deserves it._

Without asking, Ford sits beside him, couch cushions giving way. The physical gap between them is small though it feels like the Grand Canyon. One wrong step and they’d plummet dangerously, no turning back. Ford is silent, backbone straight and tense. A hurt Stan scowls at the coffee table, refusing to look his oblivious brother head-on.

“Why did you take it off?” Ford asks after a very long time of horrible silence.

“Take what off?”

“I know you’re aware of what I’m talking about. I’m being serious, Stanley.”

“So am I,” Stan growls. He finally turns toward Ford, eyes harsh. “You really think I’m a cheap son of a bitch, don’t you?”

Ford blinks, not expecting the sharp accusation.

“I never said that.”

“So it’s true,” he says, rage burning fire behind his corneas. The blue flames lick at Ford, invisibly charring his skin. Ford’s mouth opens slightly, obviously uncomfortable.

“That’s not what I meant.”

“Then what _did_ you mean, Stanford?” Stan basically yells, beyond frustrated. “Because I gotta say I’m curious. Why did you really give me that watch?”

“Because I broke your other one.”

“Yeah, but ya coulda given me something a helluva lot cheaper. Why’d you pick _that_ one?”

“It reminded me of you. I- I know you like gold jewelry, and you appreciate expensive things. Why are you so angry?”

“Cuz you’re tryin’ to buy me over by throwing your money around.”

“No, I’m not.”

“Do you even like your sweater or do you think I’m a cheapskate and you’re just throwin’ me a bone out of pity?”

Extremely frazzled by all the questions and accusatory tone, Ford puts his head in his hands, breathing hard. When he looks back, Stan loses some of his anger, seeing how lost Ford looks trying to explain the emotions that have always confused him.

“Is this because I thought you’d choose money over love?”

“Ding, ding, ding!” Stan growls. “We have a winner!”

Ford snarls, not taking it anymore.

“You know what? Yeah, I did think you’d choose money. And I did pick that watch out because it was expensive, but not because I was trying to- to ‘buy you over.’ I knew you would like it, just like you knew I’d like this sweater. We know each other well, Stanley. That’s why we picked out the gifts we did. And I love this sweater because _you_ made it with your own two hands, for _me_ , _and_ in my favorite color. Nothing you could have bought would have meant as much as this does.” Ford grabs a part of his sweater between two fingers. “If I was half as good at picking out gifts as you I would have made you something as well. Now I wish I had because you apparently hate what I gave you. As usual, I’ve pissed you off without even trying.”

When Ford stops talking he’s breathing hard, overly exasperated and worn out from saying exactly what he feels. His entire aura looks lost, like he desperately wants to makes things right yet doesn’t know how. Stan knows his twin is horrible at pretending to feel something he doesn’t. Reminding himself of that, the anger bleeds quickly, leaving Stan feeling slimy and pungent. Knowing that Ford was being truthful, Stan reaches toward the coffee table, grabbing the watch and slipping it back on. He looks at Ford who watches the golden beauty back in its rightful place, gaze eventually looking up at Stan with such sad, searching eyes that Stan starts to feel his self-hatred seep unwantedly back.

Stan sighs before scooching over, arm going around Ford’s slouched shoulders, pulling him close in a sideways apology. Their heads lean together, sides pressing into each other, warm yet still tense.

Ford sighs, hand going to Stan’s thigh. His fingers squeeze a little, staying put. Stan looks down at the contact, realizing they’ve resumed their position from a little over an hour ago. So much had unexpectedly happened in that time that Stan felt exhausted and quite whiplashed. Automatically, his tired eyes close, thinking he’ll just rest them for a moment. Feeling Ford relax into him was the salve Stan desperately needed. Knowing Ford was there, cautious yet thankfully still present, helps nudge Stan accidentally into the dark yet not-so-sweet abyss of sleep.

+++++++

With a start, Ford jumps awake. His head had been resting on Stan’s wide chest, strong arm slung protectively around him. Ford smiles while the unaware man sleeps, knowing he was safe and secure by his side the whole time. No beasts or monsters from the multiverse were going to spring up on them anytime soon. As always, Stan’s presence alone made him feel more at home.

His glasses had readjusted themselves while he slept, nose rests pressing painfully into his bridge and creating two round marks. He frowns, fixing them. His legs stretch, bones cracking. Getting old was hell.  

He glances over at Stan again. Watching his brother lounging against the couch, Ford smiles. His mouth was wide open, snoring quite loudly, hair now artfully ruffled. Ford can’t help the tug he feels watching his twin sleep. It had been so lonely without him, even if Ford wouldn’t admit it back then. Now that they were together, Ford felt he could fully appreciate his presence again. Stan’s face seemed younger in sleep, showing an innocence he didn’t actually have. Along with his pudgy tummy and slight stubble, Stan looked very huggable. It was nice being able to look at Stan without his knowledge, and though it was tempting to snuggle back into him and fall into a peaceful slumber, he didn’t know what time it was. Any other night he wouldn’t have cared, but this night was deemed special for some needless reason.  

He tilts his head, checking the time on Stan’s watch. It was five minutes before midnight. Ford feels panic rising. He squeezes Stan’s leg tight to wake him up. His snore cuts off halfway, body tensing. Once he realizes where he is, he closes his mouth, moving it like it was dry and painfully scratchy. His eyes search before him, likely waking from a dream, still coming back to earth. After a moment he clears his throat, shaking his head. His gaze falls on Ford after a moment, hazy as he yawns and stretches long arms, joints audibly cracking.

“What time is it?” says his gruff, sleep-addled voice.

“It’s almost midnight,” Ford explains.

That seems to wake Stan up completely.

“Shit,” he exclaims, leaning over and grabbing the television remote. He presses a red button, turning it on and flicking through channels before finding one that counted down for their time zone. Some performer neither knew nor cared about was singing a fleetingly popular song. Stan turned the volume down in distaste. They watch the screen for a while, yet again not knowing what else to do. They hadn’t bothered buying ridiculous noisemakers or hats to celebrate the occasion. Once you hit a certain age, finishing another year was daunting and not something you wished to celebrate.

"You never told me your real resolution," Ford reminds for something to say and also because he’s genuinely curious.

Stan shakes his head, watching the minute tick down.

"I don't have one."

Ford doesn't believe that. Stan always had a resolution even if he only spent a day on it and gave up with a huff, starting new crutches to attempt giving up later in the process.

"You always have some sort of resolution,” reminds Ford.

Stan sighs, slouching further into the couch. His eyes remain on the television screen, changing colors and brightness lighting his face in the otherwise dark room. Ford watches him, back straight, appreciating the beautiful glow and awaiting a reply.

"Fine," huffs Stan. "It's to be a better brother. Ya happy now?"

Ford blinks. The countdown now read thirty seconds. People all over the big city called the daunting numbers, sadly awaiting the end of one year's chapter and the beginning of another.

"You're a fine brother. Why the hell would _that_ be your resolution?"

Stan finally looks at Ford, head tilted slightly.

"Seriously? I broke your nerd project costin' us our relationship because I was afraid to lose you and then _lost_ you, I pushed you into the portal because I was angry, and when ya came back we treated each other like shit. It took the fuckin' apocalypse for us to hug and a stupid tradition to kiss. I'm not a 'fine' brother. I'm not even mediocre."

“10…! 9…!” The people called on screen, eventful yet horrible year thankfully almost over.

Everyone in the world seems to be counting down while Ford sits in their living room hoping time would freeze. He just wishes he could figure out the right words to say. Though that might take the whole next year. How could Stan think that? Sure, Ford had been enraged when all of those things had happened, and for much longer than he should have been, but he saw now what Stan had done for him. For Christ's sake, the man had spent thirty years providing for himself during the day and the nights studying to bring him back, barely bothering to take care of himself. Ford was well aware now that he pulled his giant head from his ass what Stan had sacrificed for him. The kids made damn sure of it, not leaving Oregon until he realized that Stan had suffered too. Ford didn't have the right words to say exactly how he felt; that few people could deal with Ford for as long as he had and still care deeply about him, and how blasphemously wrong he truly was about being a bad brother. There'd be time for that next year, which was quickly approaching.

“8…! 7…!”

Ford watches him silently, Stan looking quite sad after admitting what he actually thought of himself. His hand squeezes Stan’s knee. He looked down at it, smiling sweetly yet infinitely sad. This was the real Stan; the one hiding under all the gruff detest and sulky anger. That was the Stan he had intended to leave behind for the west coast; the one he selfishly abandoned on the street below while their father disowned him.

"6..! 5...!"

Ford reaches out, palm grazing the grey stubble of Stan’s face, wanting his undivided attention. Stan turns his way with mild curiosity, though wanting to watch the ball drop.

"4...! 3...!"

The genius didn’t care about some stupid tradition. When it came to his intentions, Stan had been translucent. Ford imagines that his twin thinks his amorous actions were unwanted. That's not the case. In fact, Ford liked them too much, especially when Stan was getting handsy while they danced. That was the problem, not being a puritan. He's allowed to touch and kiss and hold him now and that's mortifying. Watching the man before him, a badly-glued teacup wanting to be filled with affection and going without for so long, Ford felt a surging heat in his heart. It had always been there, but like most emotions, Ford had attempted to ignore it. The older twin had a bad feeling he couldn’t anymore.

"2...! 1...! Happy New Year!"

The people on screen and all over the world scream and cheer and make ridiculously loud noises as the clock strikes midnight.

"Happy New Yea-” Stan starts, but Ford has other plans.

He wraps his arms around Stan, pulling him close, giving him a proper New Year’s kiss. Stan's eyebrows raise but he clutches Ford's shoulder blades regardless, opening his mouth for him. Now much more experienced than a week ago, Ford shoves his tongue in Stan's mouth, sliding against his twin's surprised one, attempting to express without words how good of a brother Ford knows he really is. He leans into Stan with all his weight, forcing him to either hold him up in the awkward position or tumble into the couch cushions. Stan let's himself lie down, legs stretched off the front of the couch while Ford lies atop his side. Realizing that the position is useless, Ford climbs off, careful not to knee his brother. Stan starts to sit up, thinking the odd and forceful New Year’s kiss was over, so Ford lays a hand on his shoulder.

"Lie down and get comfortable."

Stan's eyebrow shoots up, silently asking what he had planned.  

"Oh, uh… okay," he says distantly, trying to figure out if he should start getting excited for the possibilities or afraid that Ford's about to do something synonymously stupid.

Stan positions himself on the couch anyway, always the risk-taker, hands clacking together on his chest, head resting fairly comfortably on the couch’s plush arm as he looks worriedly in his twin’s direction. Silently, Ford looks down at him, making sure he's comfortable. Though not overtly sexual like his twin, Ford wasn't innocent either. Inside his whirring mind contained many inappropriate thoughts and some of them were surfacing now. Maybe it was the changing year, or the wine helping things along, but Ford felt ready.

Steady hands grabs the bottom of his sweater, tugging upward. He quickly pulls it off then folds it neatly, laying it atop the old television. Intently, Stan watches, gaze scanning his scarred body.

Next he shucks off the tank top, letting it fall in a small pile at his side. Stan's curiosity peaks, hands freezing their nervous movement. Wine had given Ford much appreciated –though false– liquid courage. He just hoped it would stay.

Ford leans over Stan, leg coming up and over, straddling his body. Stan’s hands move from his own chest to Ford's hips, holding him in place above his pelvis. Ford leans down, hands working on Stan's shirt while he kisses him, wet tongues sliding against each other, battling. The shirt gets past his nipples with some frustration since Stan's still lying on it. Ford breaks the kiss, hands clenched around the shirt, not quite sure how to get it off. Stan sees the obvious destination of where he's going with this, so he leans up, almost into Ford while Ford pulls the shirt off. He throws it on his discarded undershirt as Stan lies back down, eyes going dark. Unlike him, Stan doesn't know how far this is going.

Still feeling fairly confident, Ford leans down, mouth latching onto a pink nipple. Hair tickles his nose as he pulls the nub into his mouth, sucking hard. Stan bucks, knocking hips with Ford, not expecting the sensation.

"Jesus," he breathes. "Ya feelin' a little horny, eh, Ford?"

Mouth still playing with Stan's nipple, he positions their pelvises together, slowly sliding against him in reply. Stan makes a choked noise as Ford's ever-growing erection rubs against his crotch, eliciting hushed, passionate curses. Ford's other hand goes to the opposite nipple, twisting and pulling as his mouth is infinitely gentle, figuring Stan would appreciate the contrast. By the pleasurable sounds he makes, Stan does. Ford can feel Stan’s interest growing against him, causing Ford’s mouth to water. The straddled man starts to push his hips upwards, wanting stronger contact. Ford has to agree with the desire, but he was hardly finished. Since spoken words were his greatest foe, as Stan had always informed him, Ford had to rely on his vast knowledge of human anatomy. He knew what usually turned people on from a scientific aspect even if he didn't have much hands-on experience. Having science on his side gave him the confidence he otherwise wouldn't have; and having his recipient be Stan, someone who would likely take anything he gave him gladly, not caring if he messed up, gave Ford his courage. Besides, his own growing arousal helped nudge his brain out the window a tad so his sex drive could sneak in.

Letting his hands wander over smooth yet hairy skin, Ford rocks against Stan's pelvis, letting their clothed erections rub frustratingly against each other. Stan’s hands pull down at Ford’s hips, growling in frustration. Both needed more contact.

Ford releases Stan's hard nubs, discarding earlier thoughts of going slow, mouth now moving downward. He does something he always wanted but was too afraid to try. His tongue darts out, licking at Stan’s naval, wet muscle sliding into his belly button. Stan’s breath hitches, low growl escaping as he shudders at the unexpected sensation. Ford smiles, glad to have quenched his curiosity and pleased that Stan appreciated the detour.

He pushes himself backward, positioning himself further down between Stan's legs. He unzips Stan’s pants cautiously, fingers nervous on the fly at his hand being so close to Stan’s obvious arousal. Trying to help, Stan positions his legs over Ford's head so he can pull the trousers off easier.

Next would come the underwear, but Ford falters. He looks down at Stan, one leg pressing against the couch, the other foot sitting on the floor, himself kneeling right between them. Stan stares back with blown blue eyes, silently hoping for more. Ford’s nervous gaze goes down Stan's body, the smattered grey hair, pudgy tummy, and exceptionally hairy treasure trail, finally settling on his pelvis. Ford gulps hard. Now that he takes a second to appreciate what he was doing, the fear of what was to come came flooding back, trapping him under frigid, inescapable ice. Stan's erection stared back at Ford’s nervous inspection, only cloth holding it back now. It scared the hell out of the inexperienced man. He'd only done some experimentation in college, but nothing since. He had vast knowledge of sex but chose not to partake in it often, having other priorities. Seeing Stan at attention and ready to go mortified him beyond words. Worry planted the seeds of doubt and now their vines wrapped around his aching chest and neck, squeezing impossibly tight.

As always, Stan saw his fears and instantly understood. He sat up with a grunt, strong and gentle arms folding around him, tearing off the invisible tethers and letting Ford be free once more. Ford still felt very vulnerable, especially without the clothing covering his ugly scars. Stan ran a hand over them, seemingly fine with the imperfections as his matching eyes bore into Ford’s. The more nervous of the two sucks in a breath, loving the tender and curious, wandering hands. It had been so long since anyone had showed him that kind of care. Ford knew now that he wanted this, all of this, regardless of how horrifying it might be. Stan peers into his soul, capturing all of his attention and then some.

"Hey. We don't hafta go all the way, alright? We don’t hafta do _anything_. Don't freak out about it. Let's just have a little fun and see what happens, okay? No pressure."

Ford sighs rather shakily with thanks, glad that Stan understands. He knew his brother was on the exact opposite side of the sexual spectrum. He doesn’t want to disappoint him. Knowing that Stan wasn't pressuring him at all and was just happy to get some affection gives Ford the added kick he needs.

Leaning forward, he kisses Stan, chests flushed. The sensation of skin against hot skin was wonderful. Ford moans into Stan's mouth, anticipation sparking some vigor into his deflated erection. Stan holds him as he slowly allows their bodies to settle back down, taking Ford with him. Ford doesn't stay in his embrace long, though. Before he loses the courage, he slides down Stan's body, pressing wet kisses down his chest as he does so, mouth eventually stopping over his clothed erection. He can feel Stan's full attention on him, eyes watching with intense curiosity. Ford's mouth moves down cautiously, kissing the protruding tip. Stan makes a low sound which seemed like a good sign. It urges Ford on. He sucks the covered head into his mouth, hands gripping Stan’s hips while tasting the bitter wetness starting to seep in through the cloth. His hands grab the waistband once his mouth leaves its devious position, tugging it down carefully. Ford moves his head as the freed erection springs upward. Ford looks at it with trepidation, worrying at his lip, not sure how this will work. Stan was quite large.

His eyes dart warily to Stan's whose watch back. His mouth is parted and he looks quite lost already, though barely even touched. Seeing Stan so aroused with so little effort helps him fight through those needless fears.

Ford reaches out a cautious hand, fingers curling around Stan's cock. It's warm and heavy in his hand, similar yet so different from his own. Stan makes a sort of sigh, hips lifting a little, asking for more. Ford moves his hand, pumping him gently, finally releasing some of anticipation's pressure. Seeing that Stan doesn't push him away and tell him he's doing a horrible job, Ford gets a little braver. His head leans down, curious. The pink tongue juts out, licking at the bead of precome at the tip, tasting his cock without any clothing causing hindrance. Stan moans.

"Keep doin’ that," he half tells half begs, already fully aroused.  

Ford does as he’s asked, tongue rolling over the tip, licking at it like a lollipop because he doesn't know how else to. Stan seems to love the attention so Ford figures he’s doing just fine. His lips position over his teeth, mouth going down. Ford sucks on the tip, hand sliding up and down Stan's cock all the while. He pumps the base while sucking what he can, interspersed tongue licking over the head while his mouth hallows around his cock. He tries to go down a little but frustratingly finds he's not very good at it. The inexperienced man chokes a little so he simply sucks on the head and gives Stan a strong, unwavering rhythm with his hand instead.

"Fuck, that feels so good,” Stan wheezes, barely blinking as he watches his brother’s actions. "God, Stanford, you're good at this."

That sure strokes Ford's ego. He licks a stripe up Stan’s length, feeling confident, wet mouth slipping back over the tip and giving a good, strong suck.

"Jesus!” Stan gasps. “Ford, I'm-I'm close."

Though warning him of his nearing ejaculation, Ford doesn’t pull off. He wants to taste Stan. He moans around his cock, letting Stan know he wants his brother’s come in his mouth. He wants to feel it, taste it, mark down every sensation like the good and dedicated scientist he is. A low growl rumbles through Stan's throat, down his entire body, hips jutting up.

"Fuck!" he yells, body tensing, rolling with pleasure as his come squirts in strands into Ford’s mouth. It's warm and bitter and Ford finds he loves the feel of it resting on his tongue. He swallows the unique substance down, hand pumping strong and hard, helping Stan through his climax. When Stan's back hits the couch with a thump he throws a lazy arm over his eyes, breathing hard and shallow.

"Holy shit. That… that was amazing."

He takes a few steadying breathes, eventually coming back down to earth. Once he's sated and can concentrate again, he glances at Ford. His twin is straining in his pants, looking down and cursing, struggling to undo his belt. Stan sits up, taking it off quickly and throwing it wherever it lands, not caring. He pushes Ford back, making him sit against the couch’s arm while Stan grabs his pants and underwear, pulling them off with an ease his brother didn’t share, throwing them in the general direction of the belt.

He wastes no time, getting on his knees and straddling Ford's outstretched legs, suddenly very hungry for a cock in his mouth. Ford watches downward as everything happens so fast. One minute he has a straining erection and the next he watches as Stan's hand cups his balls while his mouth licks at his tip. Ford's hand grips the back of the couch, hips going upward on their own accord. He gasps “St-Stanley!” as his hips automatically attempt to fuck his mouth with miniscule thrusts. Getting the hint, Stan impales himself on Ford’s cock, right to the base like he's done it dozens of times. And then the bastard sucks. Ford yelps. It was all so fast and so fucking good. He bites his lip, body tensing, eyes forced shut. He almost came with just one movement. Stan keeps sucking, practically begging for his release. Desperately, Ford tries to hold off, let his first time with Stan last. But Stan’s so fucking good at it, and after being so close while he had sucked Stan off, Ford loses it. He's too far gone to care about waiting it out any longer. Watching Stan climax, feeling him come in his mouth was more than Ford needed. He felt his balls draw up in Stan's gentle hand, affectionate while his mouth engulfs his cock, cheeks hallowing around his length, wet and warm and begging to be filled. Ford does as Stan wishes, body tensing, ass and abs pulsating as he orgasms.

“O-Oh, God, Stan, I-” Ford makes a loud, high moan, shooting come down Stan's eager throat. He sucks it down, helping Ford ride though his own climax, fingers gently massaging his balls as they release their load.

When Ford is utterly spent, sweat beading on his body, muscles loose and shaky; Stan sits up, wiping at his mouth, waiting for his twin to come down from the high. It takes a while; hazy eyes unfocused and sated. He gives Stan a goofy grin and runs a hand through his own disheveled hair, looking drunk off their actions. Stan grins, overflowing with pride at causing such a reaction in his brother. Stan pulls Ford into a hot, sweaty embrace, then chuckles into him.

"Mmm," Ford moans into his ear, voice sounding almost slurred, hands pulling him closer. "You're very good at that."

"So are you," admits Stan, sounding pleased.

Ford loves the stroke to his ego just as much as his equally self-conscious brother.

Still dopey from the high and comfortable enough with Stan now that they had taken their relationship to the next level, Ford was feeling quite confident.  

"You're a great brother, Stanley. Don't you dare think otherwise."

Stan tenses in his arms. It takes him a long time for him to settle back into Ford’s embrace. When he does, he kisses his neck, making him gasp, lovely prickles shooting up and down where his lips had settled. When Stan pulls away, Ford simply sits there, hands still touching each other’s sides, not wanting to let go.  

"I think you need a new resolution," suggests Ford, still lethargic from the high.

"Ta do that with you a helluva lot more,” Stan says automatically.

Ford shakes his head.

"That's not a resolution, that's a given."

Stan looks surprised at Ford’s risqué and sincere words.

"What's your resolution then?” Stan asks, ignoring the previous sentence. “Ya never told me.”

Ford thinks on it, face scrunching.

"I hadn’t thought about it, but I think it's the same as your old one. I'm the one who's not a very good brother, Stan.”

His twin gives him a sad look, apparently not agreeing.

“Don’t say that, Stanford.”

“It’s true,” Ford voices, shrugging. "The kids taught me that. And I fully intend on making it up to you."

Stan seems to chew on his next words before speaking them aloud.

"Keep sucking my dick like that and we'll call it even."

Laughing, Ford thinks he's kidding at first, but the look on his face is actually serious. Ford isn't all that surprised, really.

"Sex will make it up to you?"

"What can I say?” Stan says with a forced and showy wink. “I'm a simple man."

Ford snorts, kissing the half-joking smile Stan rewards him with. He can taste his own come and isn't sure how he should feel about that.

Ford pulls slightly away, hands running up and down Stan's squishy sides. A previous idea suddenly comes to mind, so Ford decides he can allow himself the temptation now. Still having some courage left, Ford lets his hands wander backwards, finally comfortable enough with doing so. His hands cup Stan's ass; he’s happy to see Stan jump in surprise. He kneads the small cheeks a little, no longer feeling amorous but wanting to see Stan's reaction; switching roles with his brother. Stan looks like he appreciates it, even though neither could get hard anytime soon. Ford moves his hands back to Stan’s hips, smiling a little bashfully now that his exploration was over.

“As soon as you can get an erection again, I’ll make it up to you some more,” says Ford, wondering if Stan will actually take him up on that promise. After all, he did need the practice.

Thick, grey eyebrows shoot up at that. Stan gulps, licking his lips in thought.

“O-okay. I’ll hold ya to that.”  

They simply look at each other, pleased and sated. Ford’s mind wanders shamelessly now that it’s powered back on, basking in the warm glow all around him. That’s when a tempting thought crosses his mind. A shy smile appears on his face as he contemplates whether he should voice the perverse thought out loud. Deciding that it was worth a shot, Ford dares to speak.  

“Heh. You, um, you could give me that striptease you asked me about.”

“I said lap dance, Ford,” Stan deadpans; “not striptease.”

“You could do both,” suggests Ford, voice titillating, not smooth at all.

Stan snorts, kissing his lips gently before pulling back a bit.

“Hah. I like where your mind’s at. Finally in the gutter with mine.”

Ford smiles. If he’s being honest with himself, he rather likes the filth. At least it’s a shared space.

A few blissful minutes pass before Stan groans, having to move now that his creaking legs are getting sore. Aching muscles stretch before Stan settles into the couch. Without warning, Stan pulls Ford to his chest, both resting almost sideways on the couch now, forgetting their nakedness. Ford lets himself be manhandled, pink cheek squishing and settling against Stan’s right breast while his thin arms encircle the soft, wide frame. He’s surprisingly comfortable.

“Well, that was a good start to the year,” mentions Ford.  

Stan snorts a laugh in agreement.

“I think this’ll be a good one,” admits Stan, tone infinitely pleased at the way things were starting out.

For a few minutes they sit there, basking in the lovely afterglow, sleep pulling at them from their amorous activities. After a while they give in to the sensation, letting themselves fall softly into darkness with the warm security of each other’s presence acting as a soft, protective blanket.  

Two brothers sleep peacefully inside the warmth as people all over the world celebrate possibilities of the new year. Outside the snow starts to fall, covering dead grass with a protective sheet of a new presence, marking new beginnings.

**Author's Note:**

> The song Ford picks is “He’s a Rebel” by The Crystals. And if you don’t know “Rhythm of the Rain” by The Cascades, please listen to it and imagine Stan hearing that song and thinking of Ford after they parted ways. You’re welcome. 
> 
> Unsurprisingly, I’m now tempted to write a Valentine’s Day fic. Apparently this story isn’t going to stop tormenting me. Dammit. At least I have a month to write it instead of five days. And if it hits 9,000 words as well I’m going to throw my computer out a third-story window. So, look out for falling laptops. And then me jumping after it in instant regret.


End file.
